For a Better Place
by Crescentium
Summary: Brad's long life leaves him with stories to tell. But some stories, he'll keep close to his heart. Maybe because he doesn't know how they end.


**Author's Notes:** This was written for WK Reverse Fest 2013 over on LJ. My prompt was "Five historical/political events Crawford wishes he could take credit for (and one he can)." I took some liberties with the prompt and worked with genres I haven't written in more months than I care to recall, but I thoroughly enjoyed painting this vista of one possible far-distant future of Schwarz.

Ventures in the realms of humour and romance, turned out rather mushy. You'll need some general understanding about a few sciency/political/historical subjects for all the references.

* * *

"Uncle Brad?"

His brows twitched every time he heard that name. He wasn't entirely sure whose idea it was to tell them to call him _Uncle Brad_ of all things, though if he had to take a guess, he would have assumed some German influence was at work.

"Uncle Bra-ad."

It was worse when they baaed like that. He set down the brandy in anticipation of a tug on his sleeve. He snatched the offending little devil by the wrist a second before the boy's hand touched him.

"Yes?" He directed one of his more impressive _did you really think you could surprise me?_ eyebrows at the young Japanese boy who had dared venture so close to his armchair.

A pleasing silence followed as the three children gaped at him in awe. Crawford's eyes passed over them critically. Their facial features were unmistakeably Asian, though the hair colours might have made you think ― he blinked at the girl's fierce red mane. The crackling flames in the fireplace altered the shadows on their faces. He might have been looking at an entirely different set of children.

Children from a long time ago, once upon a time in a past better off forgotten.

"We were wondering," whispered the girl cautiously, "how old are you, Uncle Brad?"

He released the boy's wrist. He examined the three small faces from under his brows. The reading glasses dangling on his nose made it that much easier to recall the yesterdays where he had last been surrounded by flocks of little twerps like these. Psychically gifted children they had rescued from various different locations around the world. He picked the glasses off his nose, closed his eyes and rubbed his temple. He reminded himself that the world was different for these children.

He had changed it. It was different.

"Daddy says its going to be your sixtieth birthday soon," peeped one of the boys. "But that can't be right."

"Yeah," chimed in the other boy. "You got to be at least six hundred."

Crawford opened his eyes and gave them an Eyebrow of Doom. "Six hundred?"

All three nodded in unison. Crawford's gaze darted from one small face to another. His slight frown quickly deepened into a scowl. All right. So his hair had turned completely white, he had a few more wrinkles and he needed reading glasses ― that did not mean he was as old as all that!

He opened his mouth to challenge their sad mistake and inform them that he actually looked rather young for his age, thank you very much, but as he looked in their expectant eyes, it occurred to him that their dear Daddy might have put them up to this just to tease him. That kind of warfare called for something different. A swift and brutal retaliation.

He set his book on the small table next to his armchair, placed his reading glasses on top of the book, and turned back to the children with a suave smile.

"Well, that's very observant of you," he said. "I am six hundred and sixteen to be precise."

Their eyes went very wide. She hugged her pink stuffed toy to her chest. The boy standing close to his armchair took a respectful step back.

"Really?" they all whispered.

Crawford leaned back in his seat and joined his fingertips on top of his chest. His smile deepened into a wicked grin.

"Why, yes," he said pleasantly. "I was born in the fifteenth century."

He had their undivided attention now. He kept them waiting for a long breathless moment, savouring the way they were soon literally leaning forward for more.

"You have lots of stories, Uncle Brad?" asked the girl.

"Several for every century. I was actually involved in some of the most important historical events of all time. Come to think of it..." he added with a glint in his eye. "You could even say that I invented time."

At this, the children's faces belied disbelief of such proportions as to suggest that they were beginning to doubt him. Crawford chuckled and tapped his thumbs together.

"I was operating out of Europe at the time. The American continent has always been my passion, but in the sixteenth century, it was still quite a mess. Wars, conquests, squabbling with the natives..." He waved his hand dismissively. "I rather waited until it quieted down a bit. Besides, I had some rather important innovations to help along."

"Modest as usual, huh?"

The voice came from near the door. A red-haired man was standing with one hand stuck in his trouser pocket, his upper body bare, leaning to the door frame. Crawford gave a sidelong look at the familiar wiry shape. Schuldig hadn't lost a single line of his elegant, toned figure. You could tell age only just barely from the lines on his face. Of course he dyed his hair. _To hell with distinguished,_ the telepath always said, determined to fight both convention and Mother Nature.

"What are you doing to these poor children?" Schuldig asked and waved a lazy wine glass in the children's direction. It was unclear whether he meant to point at them or greet them.

Crawford picked up his brandy glass. "I'm giving them a history lesson from the point of view of someone who was there."

Schuldig cocked a quizzical eyebrow.

"You wouldn't know," Crawford murmured. "You're so young."

"Uncle Brad's telling us about how he discovered time," explained one of the children dutifully.

Schuldig's brows jumped.

"Sit down and listen with the rest of the babes, if you will," Crawford said. "Now, where was I?"

"You said that you were going to help some innovating in Europe."

"What, Europe can't survive without you?" The corners of Schuldig's mouth were twitching.

Crawford ignored him.

"You see, children, our planet moves in space and circles the sun once every year. That causes the seasons — your father has explained how seasons work, hasn't he? The problem is that the round trip takes a few hours longer than the exact number of days in a calendar year. To compensate, we need to add one entire day to the year every now and then to keep our calendar in sync with the seasons. The years when the days are added are called leap years."

Schuldig rolled his eyes. "Is this a history lesson or prep for a science quiz?"

Except for the quiet giggle from the leftmost boy, the children, who were used to Schuldig's less-than-gracious commentary rippling alongside anything Crawford ever said, paid as little attention to the telepath's interjection as Crawford.

"The calendar that was popular in Europe in the early sixteenth century was called the Julian calendar, and it didn't calculate the length of year accurately enough. Date drift eventually occurred. We would be celebrating Christmas about half a month too early if we were still using the Julian calendar today. Eventually we might be celebrating Christmas in summer. You can see how inconvenient that would be for the future generations."

All three were listening intently. The confused frowns on their faces testified to their desperate attempt to grasp what he was saying. Crawford hid his smile behind the rim of his glass as he took a sip of brandy.

"Sixteenth century?" Schuldig had started to meander closer, his expression curious now. "What―"

"So," Crawford cut him off, "foreseeing what a hassle it would become if we stuck with the Julian calendar, I convinced the Pope into promoting a new calendar of my invention that involved a more complex calculating system for leap years. Of course, I had to promise him that he would have his name in history books for centuries to come. The calendar system we use now is named after him. But I think it was worth it."

The children's expressions were a mixture of confusion, awe and disbelief.

"So people wouldn't know when Christmas is if you hadn't come up with a new calendar, Uncle Brad?" asked the girl, her eyes wide as saucers.

"Yeah, Uncle Brad." Schuldig turned a curious eye at Crawford. "Is that what you're saying?"

"My calendar is now the global standard in most countries," Crawford said diplomatically. He directed a warning look in Schuldig's direction. _»If you play along, I'll make it worth your while.»_

_»How?»_

_»Can you see them asking us to babysit their kids ever again if they come back to their parents thinking that I'm a 600-year-old wizard?»_

Schuldig considered it, opened his mouth, then gave a little laugh and shook his head. "I got to hear the rest of this," he muttered. With that, he flopped down onto one of the nearby armchairs and propped his feet up on the coffee table. He motioned for Crawford to continue while taking a sip of his wine.

"Like I said," Crawford went on, "I have stories for every century. My biggest achievement in the seventeenth century was much more exciting than the calendar. It's related to the reason why all of you are sitting here instead of floating off into outer space."

All three looked confused.

"Gravity," Crawford provided helpfully. "I was the one who dropped the apple on Newton's head."

Schuldig bit his lip, obviously trying to hold back laughter. _»You *know* they're going to flagellate you for making their kids believe in that stupid apple story.»_

_»Like I said... they'll never want to leave us alone with their kids again.»_

Schuldig grinned and took a sip of his wine.

"Who's Newton?" asked the girl, looking even more confused.

Crawford tapped the armrest of his chair. "Newton wrote influential theories on gravity and the laws of motion. Gravity is that force of nature that gives our bodies weight. Newton came up with his theory because an apple fell on his head, thus demonstrating the effect of gravity."

"So you helped Newton invent gravity, Uncle Brad?" asked one of the boys.

"Should the man who picks up a rock be credited for the invention of rocks?" Crawford inquired.

All three children looked thoughtful. The girl was the first one to shake her head.

"Well, then," Crawford said. "Newton did not invent gravity. It was already there. I merely helped him to formulate a theory on how it works, so that we could use the information in further innovations. I actually proofread his manuscript on the subject."

Schuldig facepalmed into his wine glass. To Crawford's luck, the children were too absorbed by the ideas he was feeding them to really notice.

"Now, what else could I tell you?" Crawford looked thoughtful. He took a sip of brandy. "Well. In the eighteenth century, I decided that it was time to move to America. It was still mostly in British ownership at the time. But I saw its potential. I had foreseen the slow decay of the British Empire, so I decided to help it along where America was concerned. I needed to establish a stronghold for my activities, and besides, the European monarchies needed a little shaking up. So I planned and executed the American revolution."

"Did you really," Schuldig drawled with his finest fake British accent, then downed another dose of wine.

"I won't elaborate on the details," Crawford said. "You can ask me about those in a few years when you're a little older." He looked very pleased with himself as he added, "And that brings us to the nineteenth century."

The children stared at him intently, waiting on the edges of their seats.

"In the 1870s, I met a young man called Thomas Edison. Meeting him was like..." he frowned and looked like he was searching for just the right words, "...like a light bulb went off in my head."

Schuldig facepalmed in his glass for the second time. His shoulders started to shake, but he let out no sound.

"I didn't introduce myself to Edison, but I kept an eye on him for years. A nice young man. I helped him on his feet. I posed as a representative from the Western Union and had them buy one of his inventions for an outrageous price even though I knew he would have settled for less money. I wanted to sponsor him." Crawford winked. "I needed him to invent a few things for me."

"What things, Uncle Brad?"

"He helped along the invention of artificial light."

"So you invented light too?" asked the girl with a hushed whisper.

"Why don't you ask more about Edison from your dad," Crawford suggested. "I'm sure he'd love to tell you all about it."

Schuldig seemed to get a hold of his laughter enough to note, "Be sure to mention to your dad how much Crawford helped him!"

"Doesn't dad know?" the girl asked tentatively.

"We've felt it was best not to elaborate on everything as he was growing up," Schuldig explained. "But I guess it's time to be honest about it. After all, Brad's birthday is coming up. We can't have him celebrating the wrong date again, can we? You know the reason he hasn't wanted to celebrate his birthday is because it's always the wrong number of years. Aren't you tired of the lies, Brad?"

Crawford frowned.

Schuldig gave him an innocent smile. _»I'm playing along. Isn't that what you wanted?»_

Crawford refrained from rolling his eyes and sending back a response. Schuldig laughed and took another sip of wine.

"As to the twentieth century," Crawford said, firmly decided on ignoring Schuldig. He looked at the children and started to smile. "Why, that's when I invented the Internet."

Schuldig choked on his wine. He coughed and hit his chest several times. Even after he got his breath back, he covered his mouth and let out choked sounds. His shoulders were shaking. It was no longer clear if he was coughing or laughing.

The children were too busy looking wide-eyed and impressed to really notice what went on behind them.

"It all began with spiders," Crawford provided.

"Don't tell me," wheezed Schuldig, waving his hand. "You taught spiders how to weave invisible electronic webs that were big enough to cover the whole world!"

"Don't be absurd," Crawford said curtly. "But just like Newton got his idea from an apple, I got mine from a spider. The cobweb transmits signals across the entire web in a fraction of a second. So I got to thinking, what if you could transmit a message through wires the same way. And so, I gave my idea to suitable scientists of my choosing, and then watched them develop it to full fruition. And that's why we now enjoy effortless global communication throughout the world."

Schuldig wiped his eyes from tears of laughter. "Yeah," he chuckled. "It's all your fault that the kids call us every fucking week from Japan."

The children looked awed.

"Wow," said one of the boys with a sigh. "One day, I want to be as smart as you, Uncle Brad."

"No I want to be smarter!" interjected the other boy.

The girl shook her head. "Nobody's smarter than Uncle Brad!" she declared. "Dad said so!"

Crawford's smile quietly faded. His mood changed like a flick of a switch. Her voice echoed in his mind. _Nobody's smarter than Uncle Brad! Dad said so!_ He lowered his eyes to his brandy glass. _Dad said so!_ He was reminded, once again, of how this was the third generation of Schwarz. The third generation of young wide-eyed promises, looking up to him, looking for a role model. The third generation to expect wonders from him, and easily accept his lies simply because of who he was. The man who has all the answers.

Crawford's eyes drifted over to the red-haired creature who was struggling to hide his mirth from the children. Schuldig represented all the answers he didn't have. After a long moment of silence, he suddenly got up on his feet.

"Story time is over," he said gruffly. Without another word, he started to walk to the door.

Schuldig glanced after him in surprise, then looked at the children who seemed just as confused over Crawford's sudden departure. Schuldig dropped his feet off the coffee table and put away his wine glass.

"Okay, kids," he said briskly. "Let's see if I can get you to stay in bed in one piece or if I need to hack off a limb or two to keep you down."

But his tone was light and the children giggled. Crawford heard it all from behind him. The way Schuldig connected with the brood never ceased to amaze him. Maybe it was a telepath thing. Or maybe he had learned something from the time spent tending to all those children they had had to pick up over the years. Crawford rubbed the corners of his eyes. Just thinking back on it all made him very tired.

Crawford had taken a shower and made it into the master bedroom by the time Schuldig was done with the children. When the telepath came in, he was in the process of drying his hair with a towel, naked save for another towel wrapped around his waist. Schuldig gave him an assessing look.

"The kids don't have a clue. You don't look that old."

Crawford let the towel drop on his shoulders. "They asked you how old I really am?" He meant to say it with a smirk, but his lips barely moved to speak the words, let alone throw in an extra manoeuvre.

Schuldig walked over to him and touched his back. Crawford stood quietly, his barrel chest as strong as it had always been, his shoulders as broad, and the muscles of his back still rippling with pleasure as Schuldig let his hands wander, his arms eventually coiling around his partner's body.

Schuldig buried his mouth in Brad's hair. "You got grey so early."

He talked more these days, and *sent* less. That was odd, because his powers hadn't diminished. If anything, Schuldig was more powerful, and he wielded his telepathy easily whenever others were around. But when they were private, it was different.

Crawford wasn't sure about what that meant. There were still mysteries about Schuldig. Mysteries that made him keep one eye trained on the telepath at all times.

He glanced over his shoulder, only to meet the wicked, sparkling blue. Like gemstones he had picked up at random at the jeweller's shop when no one was looking. Precious stones he might have once considered selling for a better deal, until he discovered that there was no better deal.

"But black or white," the telepath said with a little laugh, "you don't really change your colours. You're nothing if not consistent, Brad."

Crawford turned his head quizzically. He didn't have to ask. Time when they had to focus to ask anything from one another was long since gone. The unconventional method of communication had become the norm. Ideas and impressions flowed thought-speed from mind to mind.

But for a telepath, mind to mind was everyday anyway. For Schuldig, the unconventional method was skin to skin. The communion of their bodies was more exciting to him than their telepathic link. He slid his hand up on Crawford's chest, exploring his muscles.

Crawford knew it would be a while still before age would erode away the hard surfaces that attracted the redhead's attention. Sometimes he saw that distant moment. But he could never see beyond it. He couldn't tell if that would mean the end. He frowned and turned his head away as soon as those thoughts snagged him again.

He had done so much, planned his life to such detail, moulded the world the way he saw fit, and it had all come true. Yet this one thing... this thing called Schuldig... he just couldn't be sure.

"Hey," Schuldig whispered in his ear. "Don't you think I know?"

"Know what?" His voice was rougher, quieter than he meant it to be.

A slight smile rippled on Schuldig's lips. "Don't you think I know why you sent me to the Supreme Court Building that day?"

Crawford frowned. "Of course you know why. I told you to make sure that the ruling would be favourable for our purposes. DOMA had to be ruled unconstitutional. That would begin a process where the attitudes of the general population would eventually..."

"Yes," Schuldig cut him off. "You told me that it needed to happen because it would take this country in a direction you needed it to go. You told me that the conservative political environment isn't good for your business in the long run." The full length of Schuldig's body pressed up against him. "You told me all kinds of things, Brad."

"And?"

"They were all bullshit. I know why you really sent me there."

"Don't be stupid. I'm not an idealist."

"No, you're not. You've always been a fucking selfish bastard. Only interested in making the world a better place for _you_." His hand found the towel wrapped around Crawford's waist. "So don't you think I know why you sent me there?"

A deep silence followed and dragged on. Schuldig didn't elaborate. He didn't have to. Crawford didn't confess.

But then, he didn't have to.

Schuldig's long fingers slipped under the towel. His voice lowered to the familiar purr that would precede him tossing the towel away. "You've planned it all out for us." Schuldig kissed him on the neck. "So why are you afraid that I'd leave?"

Crawford closed his eyes. He hadn't meant Schuldig to catch that fear. He would have had a hundred answers to that question. They all came down to one. _Because you're you._

He most certainly did not intend the telepath to catch _that_, but the distinction between his own thoughts and those of his partner were sometimes indistinguishable.

"I won't leave, Brad," Schuldig whispered. "Because you're you."

Crawford took a deep breath. Several deep breaths. Like a diver coming up to the surface for air. Then he turned around and kissed Schuldig, and they stopped talking in the conventional way.

But their bodies and their minds kept conversing through the night.

* * *

**Author's (foot)notes:** Figure it's what happens when these two spend ~40 years psychically linked together. ;) Also, yes this was partially meant to celebrate the recent good news from America! :D Yay!


End file.
